GNOME WARFARE

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GARDEN GANGWARS

(THE ULTIMATE STANDOFF)

In a sleepy old town where the daily routines of the sleepy old inhabitants can be traced as effortlessly as the trickling stream that runs through it, even when it has been obscured by the autumnal precipitation of browning leaves, something under a foot is afoot. This is wildly misleading. It is in fact quite a number of somethings ranging from under a foot to as much as two, even three foot.

For many years now this sleepy town has settled into a rather comatose ‘éntente cordiale.’ Not that the years that preceded these were in any way a period of detectable havoc or activity. Hedges have been maintained and curtains twitch; the legion of racing green Rover 75s returned to their driveways or garages after the previous fortnight’s dailies have been collected; and after years of having prescription drugs poured into her the babbling brook, so often mistaken for a stream (especially when obscured by falling leaves in the autumn) has become quite eloquent and is currently part of a vastly enriching and high profile circuit.

The Mayor of this town- Major Mayer- a now rotund and jolly former army drill sergeant and ‘disciplinarian’, mostly sits at his desk, or at the desk of anyone with an appointment, eating the homemade jams and preserves given to him by his constituents, often between slices of bread or within cakes.

That is to say the jams and preserves are within slices of bread or cakes and not the constituents; except once several weeks ago whereby old widow Lapaty leapt out of a large homemade cake proffering homemade jam and marmalade sandwiches in what proved to be a successful attempt to put off any discussions of a by-pass; ensuring that the Mayor needed a triple, interrupting his mid-morning meeting with trifle.

Perhaps surprisingly to an outside observer (if there are any) the incident failed to get any direct coverage in the local paper. The only mention it received initially was in the ‘letters to the editor’ pages whereby a number of readers wrote in to commend the efforts of the young and single Ms Lapaty in preventing any discussion of a ghastly bypass; demanding that the mayor give her public recognition once he was able to resume his duties after surgery. Ms Lapaty herself wrote in on the ‘perils of getting jam and cake out of one’s OWN hair.’ The number of letters this article received equaled the highest ever number of letters from readers in the paper’s long history.

A number of responses to what had become known as ‘flies around cake syndrome’, or ‘how to make one’s beehive behave and bee free’ were deeply conflicting. However the most common method advised (common merely in terms of volume of suggestion) for the removal of jam was to crumble granary bread over one’s hair from approximately 3 – 4 foot above; allowing the breadcrumbs to neatly spread over the affected, afflicted area, causing the jam to loosen it’s grip on one’s hair and to leap and grasp onto the free-falling granary breadcrumbs; shake hair or comb out as soon as you believe it prudent, pouring boiling hot salty water onto the jam/breadcrumb mix to shock and surprise it and slap a slice of white bread onto it as quickly and as hard as possible.

Ms Lapaty was admitted to the hospital with severe scolding to her hand, a shattered wrist and cake in her jam free hair.

No advice was offered for the removal of cake.

The only other mention it received was in an anonymously sent letter from an embittered rival and former army subordinate of the Major’s. The letter, titled ‘Pah! Bet you didn’t see this coming either, Sir’, was of condemnation of the mayor’s ability to lead and “sniff out danger in the current state of terror.” Current being the shade the town’s people had chosen for terror level 2. All 5 levels were different hues of red.

The remark about his inability to ‘sniff out danger’ was considered by some to be a taunt at either the mayor’s suspected Roman/Gallic ancestry (his hooked, bulbous nose); by others a jibe at the fact that his eyes and ‘bags’ below them had become to resemble that of a bloodhound – rather like his mother’s dog: Sinjun; and by others a taunt at the fact that Ms Lapaty broke the mayor’s nose as she leapt out of the cake. No one thought that a combination of these ‘slanders’ was meant. None were; but all three slurs retrospectively amused the author of the letter; once they had been explained to him by three different sets of people.

The volume and type of letters and articles this incident had provoked were remarkably not in keeping with previous editions of the local paper.

This was all seemingly too much for the convalescent editor who, having just thrown this weeks newspaper to the floor, was now attempting to choke on the seedless grapes that lay before him; having a fortnight earlier shot himself in the foot just to have something of worth to write about in yet another in a long line of slow news weeks.

The plan of the editor, a pompous and increasingly frustrated biographer-turned-journalist, however, did not go according to design: the over-whelming pain from the shot led to him drop the gun on the floor at which point it emitted another gunshot; which completely took off his index finger of his right hand. This was unfortunately also his typing finger. Even more unfortunate than this was the fact that this was also his dialing finger; and he was therefore unable to phone for the ambulance.

He was found some time later writhing on the floor in a pool of blood (which lay on the sheets of blotting paper that he had placed down to cover the floor) after some towns’ folk had mistaken his screams of pain for the howling of a wolf and followed these to his 2nd floor office, situated above a hunting and fishing shop and the butchers. He came-to in the ambulance noticing a large yellow tranquilizer dart sticking out of his arm that the volunteer paramedics decided to leave in thinking it would save the hospital using an anesthetic.

It should be explained why the butcher and the shopkeeper downstairs failed to recognize or respond to the sounds of the gunshot or screams of pain. The butcher- a man of 87 with terribly bad hearing, on the 1st floor, simply assumed the shot, and subsequent bullet holes in his floor and ceiling had come from downstairs as it had done so recently in that same week; with the few drops of blood that seeped through going unnoticed as it landed on the raw red meat that lay on the counter.

The shopkeeper didn’t realize anything was wrong because he had committed suicide a few days ago.

2. The repercussions of the consequences to come

After almost a month of scheduling conflicts it was decided that the funeral of the shopkeeper was set to take place on by far the busiest weekend in the town’s social calendar. It coincided with a public (belated) birthday celebration for the town’s oldest resident. It was also the first time that that bi-monthly cake/jam/pie/sandwich/tart making contests had coincided with the annual best garden contest. This was because it was the first ever ‘best garden contest’.

The mayor had organised the garden contest at the behest of his mother, who had never won the bi-monthly cake/jam/pie/sandwich/tart making contests despite coming “quite close” on many occasions; but was confident of winning the garden contest. She believed it a much less strenuous way to show-off and win. Besides, it was becoming more and more evident just how much she was putting into the cake contests.

After several months of just missing out she had begun to purposefully put in some of her hair so that the blindfolded mayor, the only judge in the contest, would know which cake was hers. The plan failed on the first dozen or so attempts as the slices of cake he had had from her cakes were hair free.

Almost after a year of doing this she had had to pull out strands out of the wig she used to cover her almost completely baldhead to put into the cake; still hopeful the same formula would work.

It did not.

The wig she was now wearing was made of a complex sugar compound; similar to candy floss, but a brighter pink, and melted into the cake leaving no trace other than a ‘blotch’ of pink. The mayor and his mother were both unaware of this and the mayor having eaten all the cake, all of each and every cake, to ensure that he would find his mother’s cake by her hair was unable to tell her cake apart and she, again, did not win.

To say that the formula did not work is wrong. It did work: it just worked for the wrong person unbeknownst to all involved. The cakes that suprisingly won, for the 5th consecutive contest, were made by the remarkably hirsute Mrs. Campbell (recently remarried after her previous husband had died from choking in his sleep…her 4^th husband to die this way in as many years).

It was after a couple of months of contests, two months after Ms. Campbell entered the cake contests, that the Mayor began his search for a new PA/secretary. The advertisement read: personal assistant/secretary needed for the Mayor’s office. Must have long arms, with strong forearms, of about the same height as me if not taller, proficient with the hymlink maneuver, and a first-aider… typing skills, diary management and minute taking desired, but not necessary, as you probably wont have to do an of that anyway.

The search yielded no results. This was possibly due to the fact that the Mayor had only stuck the advert up in his office. In desperation, as another contest was looming, he had turned to a local celebrity, a man far better known than the mayor: George Colleridge.

George would have only been able to tick the first two boxes of criterion for the position. And not just because he would have crushed the pen. George was (as far as anyone could tell) a semi-literate man; he could read, but was unable to write. The reason for this had just been alluded to- he had a habit of crushing things in his hands. He was a man of about 4’6” on a good day; with arms that measured 3’2” from shoulder to fingertip; making him look incredibly awkward and particularly uncomfortable, especially when his hands were in his pockets: and not just because of his of crushing habit.

His forearms were massive and were the basis for his celebrity status- he was the town and county’s undefeated arm wrestling champion for the last 47 years. He was such a force that for the last 4 years he had asked to be entered in both pots of the arm wrestling tournaments: in one pot as right arm, and the other pot as left. He had met himself in the final for the last 4 years running with the following results: right hand- won 1, lost 2 (one disqualification – digging finger nails in opponents hand drawing blood), drawn 1; left hand- won 2 (right hand disqualified), lost 1, drawn 1. The drawn match was a timed out match that went to the 3hour limit.

He had vehemently argued the case for his right hand the year it was disqualified, but was unsuccessful in his appeal and his victory stood. For the umpteenth time since becoming mayor he had held one of the hands of the ever-victorious Mr. Colleridge aloft, with the help of a stepladder and pulley system. And now, with the aid of the same pulley system he was shaking the hand of his new (PA/Secretary)/Head of security- a post that was just added to protect the ultra masculine image of the celebrity.

The bi-monthly cake/jam/pie/sandwich/tart making contests started out as a one-off event organised by the mayor’s office. It coincided with the same period that the mayor’s mother wasn’t speaking to the mayor. It also coincided with the same week that the town’s baker “was going to the city to see his family.”

He wasn’t.

To anyone that even remotely knew the Mayor; that is to say to anyone who remotely knew the mayor and wasn’t taken in by the furore of the contests; it would have been easy to conclude that the mayor would’ve have been missing his two main sources of sweets and deserts during the time of the contests, and was simple looking for (an over elaborate) way for him to eat cake. Or as he later put it: “have their cake, and eat it.” As many, as varied, and as sweet as possible.

However, the commotion that ensued almost as soon as the contest was due to begin was enough to “bring the baker back from his seeing his family.” Almost enough. The baker had considered the contests outrageous, and assumed it a ploy to force him out of business- despite the fact that the top 8 cakes/tarts/preserves in the contest were his own: taken from his shop in his absence and not yet paid for, nor were they accredited to him.

Almost as soon as he has set himself free (a day and a half after the end of the contest) he had demanded an audience with the mayor; under the pretext that he had just made a richer, creamier ‘double-barreled éclair.’ The mayor cut short his business dinner meeting and ran to the bakers’ leaving behind his ubiquitously worn hat. And almost as soon as he had proved to the baker that he was the mayor and had simply forgotten his hat he had agreed to organise another event and went away disappointed with an exceedingly good ‘single-barreled éclair.’

It should be explained why the baker really wasn’t able to compete in the initial contest. The baker, very much an exhibitionist; as evident from his produce and shop window, was attempting to bake himself into a massive loaf of bread; to be discovered when it was to be sliced.

The plan was 5 years of preparation: a giant oven had been constructed, a heat-proof suit/air-bubble made and several old tin bath-tubs had been wielded together to make the bread tin, he had also told everyone he was going away for a few days. Every detail was immaculately planned. Except one- he had forgotten that there was no way of getting the giant to-be bread into and out of the oven once he was inside it. He had only remembered this once he was in the dough after a few hours.

However, he had become far too fascinated with the internal dynamics occurring before his eyes within the bread to attempt to get out. For him it was as if this loaf was telling the story of life and the universe: the way bubbles formed and set and exploded seemingly from nothing but the environment and pressure were like the life of stars and planets; the way in which yeast buzzed to-and-fro shaping and forming was like atoms, comets, sperms, trade-ships from country to country. The baker was deeply ensconced, and slept for the first time in 8 years.

Until a few hours later when the bell of his unlocked door began to ring repeatedly with villagers popping in to buy a cake for the contest leaving IOUs in his till or where the cakes had been taken from. Murmurs of the contest had finally began to reach him through the thick walls of the bread dough, and through his equally thick air-bubble/ heat proof suit just minutes before the contest was due to start; at which point he had begun to debate whether or not to get out of his bread.

After an hour or so of reckoning and deep soul searching he had remembered that the bread he was in would infact never be made; and had begun his attempt of getting out of the massive dough. It was extremely difficult. His suit offered very little room for moving his arms. It was several sizes too small. He was simply bouncing and spinning around in his spacious air-bubble/heat proof suit.

Why did he wear that suit he wondered as he continued to bounce around in his bubble and remembered that it was his best suit, his only suit perhaps? The suit he wore to his interview with the old baker nearly 50 years ago. The old baker (his dad) had decided to give his only son the job in the family business after much consideration, even though his favorite (and only) suit was being worn by his son standing in front of him.

The suit was awful and far too small, but the only ‘non-baker’ piece of clothing he had, although this didn’t stop him from wearing his white trillby hat.

When he did manage to break free he instantly noticed his shop was completely out of any type of cake. The IOUs that were scattered around the shop and in the till told an intriguing story- a nonsensical story with poor sentence structure, no plot and with far too many words spelt ‘IOU.’

The first ‘customer’ to the bakery was simply after some scented flour to make her cake with, but had decided to take a cake instead. Noticing that the shop was unattended and being as untrusting as the rest of the town’s people she left leaving an IOU with her name, date and time and type of cake she had taken. The next IOU was of similar format, as most of them were. He noticed that as the times on the IOUs had progressed so too had the types of cakes.

Some of the IOUs were quite eloquent notes written in remarkably elegant handwriting such as:

“Dearest Theodore, IOU the sum of 24pounds and 99pence for your hopefully delicious cake with the red ribbon and bow around it. I came for a more modest cake, but they seemingly have all already been taken. The cheats! Well, if ‘she’ is taking the chocolate, banana and strawberry cake…I simply must have a better one. So sorry I do not know the wonderful names you give your cakes, I simple am awful with names, as you know Eric. Sorry I was unable to catch you, strange that you are not here. I imagine you are busy concocting another masterpiece. Oh, the maestro you are! If you were only an amateur like the rest of us humble souls I’m sure you would walk away with whatever prizes are on offer. Yours, indebted as ever…”

The baker, Perry, was mortified. On two counts: firstly, he had no idea who wrote this note. Whoever did write it, most probably a one of the town’s elderly ladies was so ‘terribly bad with names’ that she had evidently forgotten to leave her own. Given that she knows what it is of course.

Whoever it was she was obviously ‘indebted to me’, thought the baker…perhaps; if she had the right person in mind. Was she bad with just names or was she one of those who get people so monumentally mixed up? The type who returns things to people who didn’t lend them out, who hold grudges with people for no apparent reasons, who befriend those stealing your furniture moments after politely kicking you off it. The type of person the baker Perry was the complete antithesis of.

Over his many years as the town’s baker Perry had gotten to know every order and quirk of every single one of his customers, and had become so inventive and accommodating. Such as the fact that since Mrs. Boylesworth wasn’t at all fond of brown bread and her husband refused to eat white, and knowing that they couldn’t, wouldn’t be willing or able to eat more than one loaf each in a week, indeed finding the idea of buying more than one loaf abhorrent, he had managed to make a loaf of bread that was one half brown and one half white. Despite the very obvious segregation he had named this loaf ‘Harmony in a bread bag’.

Other individualistic loaves included; perforated (as opposed to sliced) bread, triangle shaped loaves for perfect triangle shaped sandwiches, and a loaf of bread with every third slice being half the width of any other slice. This was a popular choice for those scared of the number three- who would throw away the 3^rd slices, and popular amongst those who liked triple sandwiches (club sandwiches)- with the third slice being the middle slice of bread in the sandwich.

The other thing that mortified the baker was the fact that his ‘just for display’ artificial plastic/wax cakes were also taken in his ‘absence’.

On returning to his office after surgery the Mayor had noticed that his mother’s friend Mrs. Fenchurch was waiting; looking rather irate sitting at his desk. Mrs. Fenchurch had “come on serious business. Very serious business indeed!” She had come to seek the mayor to “demand” that the Mayor to give an Anti-Social Behavior Order to Mr. Warbitol: “for not waving hello to as we walked on opposite sides of the road this morning”. Believing this to be the pinnacle of unsociable behaviour/(antithesis of social conduct) Mrs. Fenchurch would not listen to reason; which was a first for the Mayor in attempting to use this as a tactic instead of the usual ploy of heeding to requests. Nonetheless, despite being a close ally with the mayor’s mother, the mayor decided to make a stand on principle. Another first.

“I will not give Mr. Warbitol an Anti-Social Behavior Order for two reasons! Firstly, Mr. Warbitol,” started the mayor, pausing to pop the cherry that sat atop the tart he had been nibbling around into his mouth, “is a very dear old man of very nearly 103, he seldomnly looks up because of his massively hunched back and walks with two walking sticks. If he had heard you, which I deem severely unlikely since as you probably well know he wears industrial style ear-protectors to prevent him from hearing his teeth chattering, he would find it impossible to wave to you since he would have to let go of one of his sticks and he would definitely fall over… You may be charged with manslaughter if he did!” he added menacingly, after a brief pause for both effect and to dislodge the cherry half that had got stuck in his backteeth.

After defiantly walking a surprised Mrs. Fenchurch out if his office the mayor had instantly sunk to his knees and put his sticky hands to his mouth.

In attempting to dislodge the cherry half from his backteeth moments earlier he had mistakenly dislodged a filling and swallowed it. This left the mayor not only in pain but also rather confused. Feeling around in his mouth with his tongue he had just realised that the cherry half was still lodged in the back of his mouth; the other side of his mouth.

It was at this point that he noticed he was still wearing his downstairs house slippers. He was also wearing his blue striped pajamas. He pondered over this for a while. He distinctively remembers changing out of his bedclothes in the morning. He looked to his calendar. “1^st week of the month!” he exclaimed triumphantly. “1^st week equals red pyjamas,” he said to himself. Again out loud. He had always avoided his ‘internal voice’; believing, as a child, it to be demonic voices. He started walking around the room and pondered further. He had never done this before. His uncomfortable shoes had made it painful to even contemplate, but decided to make use of the fact he was wearing his slippers. “Interesting, very interesting…” he said to himself until he walked into his desk, stubbing his toe and forgetting his trail of thoughts. He began to curse; adding to the utter amusement of Mr. Warbitol, who had been sat in the corner of the mayor’s office waiting to get to work an hour before the mayor had arrived and was now laughing loudly, with his comic ‘laughing’/chattering false-teeth finally being put to proper use. “Mr. Warbitol,” the mayor shouted at the top of his high pitched voice (making the guide and guard dogs in the town bark wildly), “I won’t be needing you today; I’ll be doing my own walking today.”

Mr. Warbitol had been employed by the mayor to walk around his office for when the mayor wanted to think. The pace of the mayor’s thoughts matched the very slow walking pace of Mr. Warbitol. It was a symbiotic relationship.

“Oh yes,” thought the mayor, a ‘military genius’ but unsuccessful chess player, again out loud. “I do remember changing, I couldn’t find the light-switch again this morning; I stubbed this same toe and changed in the dark…Blasted ‘Daylight Saving time’!!! You have beaten me again!”

He grinned as he untied and re-tied his pyjama bottom togs, picturing what must’ve happened for him to be wearing his blue-striped pajamas. It did infact occur almost as exactly as he had imagined: he awoke and did his usual morning routine- with a few extra toe-stubbing incidents than normal, as he couldn’t find the light switch. He undressed and dressed in almost complete darkness, putting on his next weeks’ blue striped pajama bottoms on instead of his navy blue trousers.

The mayor was obviously ignorant of the fact that he had worn the same pajama bottoms yesterday and the day before too.

On the plus side his pajamas were quite clean, and his hat looked shiny.

The mayor decided to sit down moments after he had collapsed in his chair exhausted. “Did I give Mrs. Fenchurch the second reason for not giving Mr. Warbitol an ASBO? He asked himself. “No, I don’t believe I did…perhaps that’s why she looked at me…expectantly…” he laughed to himself.

The second reason wasn’t nearly as profound as the one he did give. It was simply that he had organised a birthday party for Mr. Warbitol to celebrate his 103^rd birthday, and thought it would be a better party if he were allowed to go to it. This was the mayor’s main reason, and decided to leave it till last as he thought he’d finish on this strong argument. Until, that is, he forgot it; or forgot that he hadn’t said it.

There was meant to be a celebration on his 100^th birthday, but the mayor cancelled it a week beforehand when he had discovered that there were no previous ‘100^th birthday speeches’ given by previous mayors and promised himself that he would personally organize a birthday party for Mr. Warbitol when he finished writing his birthday toast. He was nearly finished.

Some years before the mayor had become mayor; when he was still known as ‘Major’ (the transition from Major to Mayor was a painfully long, arduous and confusing one for all involved) there was due to be a 100^th birthday celebration for one of the town’s residents, however, the elderly gent died of a heart-attack due to over-excitement the day before his birthday.

4. Blushing and Blooming

The funeral of the shopkeeper was the first event of the weekend, and it went off without much incident. It was decided long before the day of the funeral that there was to be an open casket. This was the Mayor’s idea: simply because he, and no one he asked, could remember anything about the shop keeper, and there was a hope that on seeing him laying there in his open casket some memories would be jogged and anecdotes told.

His shop was not one often frequented. Perhaps if it had been people would have realized that the person that they were paying their last respects to wasn’t quite the person they were looking at now. It was over three weeks since he had committed suicide, a further week before he had been found, and another week before most of the larger fragments of his head had been collected.

Despite many people’s attempts to show off their puzzle solving skills his head didn’t quite look right when put back together. This was not aided by the fact that believing it to be a poorly manufactured puzzle with pieces that had lost their original shape one of the town’s people had broken and rolled flat all the pieces to make it fit like a regular flat puzzle.

In the end the ever-industrious baker was commissioned to make a head for the shopkeeper. And there it sat; atop the neck and shoulders of the town’s gun, camping, hunting and fishing shop shopkeeper. As a delicious consequence of habit ‘the head of the shop keeper’ was a sublimely crafted cake of soft sponge getting softer and more moist towards the center. It was because of this primarily and not because of the length of time since his passing that the open casket was surrounded by flies.

The baker’s attempt was a good one; the ‘cake head’ looked a lot like him. Which was unfortunate as it proved the fact that no one knew the poor dead fellow and nothing much was said about him other than the speech given by the mayor- which was in effect an in-depth, yet inaccurate, inventory of the stock left inside the shop, when the shop was leased, a description of the gun he used to commit suicide and lastly a list of other ways suicide can be committed. Several members of the congregation were seen taking notes at the last section of the speech; possibly wondering why choosing to listen to the mayor’s speech wasn’t also listed here.

The mass of well-wishers and early arrivals for the next event began to disperse soon after the headstone was erected, with the freshly engraved message “I shot myself”; the exact same thing written on his suicide note. It was actually still being engraved whilst it was being erected which meant that the mayor had to stall.

The headstone only read: “I shot” when it was first unveiled. This brought about a series of loud gasps after the congregated mass had managed to put their glasses on. Some of the guests walked around to the back of the headstone to see if anything was written on the other side believing it to be a confession of sorts, which is when the (embarrassed) engraver dropped his sandwich and flask of tea and leapt forward upon realizing he hadn’t yet finished his job.

Every single event the mayor had ever been involved in involved an unveiling, going back to his days as being a major in the army. It was in fact the third unveiling of the day so far, the first of the day being the breakfast plate he made for himself and ate alone, followed by unveiling the casket and then the unfinished headstone.

The next event that involved an unveiling was the very next event of the weekend; the belated birthday celebration. The party started a little behind schedule, which was actually planned for by the mayor’s office, but not planned for or considered by anyone else. The slight lateness of the start of the party was due to the constant ‘umming’ and ‘ahhing’ that followed every word in the remarks given by those who spoke at the funeral. The reason the mayor’s office assumed the party would start late was because of the distance that had to be covered to reach the party and the time needed to set up the venue.

Setting up the venue involved turning the chairs around 180degrees and walking them 5yards or so; since, in almost an homage to the ‘circle of life’ both the funeral and birthday celebration were set to take place at the same venue: a marquee in the middle of the green in the middle of town in the middle of the day.

The birthday celebration of Mr. Warbitol was not wholly unremarkable; after having been rushed away from the funeral to get ready for the party the claustrophobic elderly gent was then covered with a thick crimson red velvet curtain and left to stand under it for the worst part of an hour until it was his turn to be unveiled. On doing so the petrified and not usually incontinent Mr. Warbitol sneezed with astounding force- which caused his chattering false teeth to fly out of his mouth ‘biting’ the mayor’s still tender nose.

This seemed to amuse everyone that stood or sat behind the mayor- the chattering comic teeth appeared to chew upon the mayor’s large nose. However, the laughs did not last long. The delicious looking cake, again a masterpiece of creation from the baker, was ruined: due to the age and lung capacity of the elderly gent the numerous candles on the cake had almost all completely melted leaving the cake with a thick covering of red, white and blue candle wax, atop of this was a layer of spittle that came from the now camel like lips of the gummy mouthed gurner.

Mr. Warbitol, sat down at the head of the head table with a ‘cake smoothie’ in front of him, was the only person laughing. In fact, he had been unable to stop since the morning he left the mayor to do his own walking. Whether this was because of the momentum gained by the comedy teeth or due to the fact that in his many years of service to the mayor he had yet to see or hear anything to laugh at. There was also the possibility he was laughing because of, or at the funeral that had moments ago just taken place.

Due to the lack of edible cake, the belated birthday celebrations prematurely ended. So much so that the dejected Mayor had given up his speech halfway through the second paragraph; unable to pronounce most of the words with his nose in the condition it now was and inaudible above the sounds of his sobbing. Due to his roundabout way, the mayor’s speech had yet to mention/congratulate Mr. Warbitol for his birthday.

Owing to the hour-plus premature ending of the party, the cake contest was put off until after the garden contest to allow the cakes not to be unduly rushed. In truth all this meant was that the garden contest would go one ahead of schedule and the cake contest would go last; remaining at the same time as it had been planned to have taken place. There were several suggestions to cancel the cake contest altogether, but these were immediately shouted down by the mayor who was now already short one piece of cake for the day.

It was decided that instead of starting at the beginning, that is to say the first house of the village, the garden contest would start with the house closest to the marquee they were still in and work their way around to end with the house immediately before the one that they started with. It was anticipated that this would allow enough time for the cakes to rise and set, and also to be cooled and decorated. Perhaps unsurprisingly, this idea came from the Mayor’s mother as her house and garden would now be the house that the contest would last visit.

- Cake contest

- Garden contest

‘On a cold dark night, in a cold dark house, down a cold dark hallway, at the bottom of a cold dark stairwell lies a woman too tight to pay her electricity bills.’

‘On a day like today there is nothing better to do but seize the moment and talk about yesterday; but I know we didn’t plan for it, so let’s do it tomorrow.’

BIG TROUBLE WITH LITTLE CHINA

-An expensive selection of gnomes made from fine bone china dating back to the blah dynasty. Cursed?

BATTLE FOR THE MOAT CONTROL

CLONES, MOANS AND DUG UP BONES

Traveling gnome saleswoman selling ‘individually crafted’ gnomes

MOBSTERS AND MOLES

Loads of Italian gnomes- all named paulie, jonny, vinny,